


Constant Rarities

by Sneezysoul



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Prompt Fill, Sickfic, The survivors live together as a fambly, a smidge of fluff, can be seen as wilson/woodie if you want
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:40:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28119327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sneezysoul/pseuds/Sneezysoul
Summary: Wilson is sick and thinks too much and Woodie just wants to care for him.
Relationships: Wilson & Woodie (Don't Starve)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 37





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: just a bit of a short sickfic.
> 
> This was a prompt from somewhere but I forgot where I found it! I wrote this last year and forgot about it until now. Whoever asked for this, I hope you find it and enjoy it as small and stinky as it is. :>

He didn’t know what brought on the feeling that morning; he’d gone so long without feeling like he’d be better off laying on the ground all day that it came as a surprise.

It was a familiar feeling from before he’d come here. He used to get vertigo and become so sluggish those days. He remembers the last time he’d felt that way he’d accidentally ruined some concoctions of acidic material he’d made.

That was a close call honestly. His brother had called him and the phone had woken him out of some sort of daze - at the time, he’d thought he’d blacked out, what with the way he was on the floor and the acid stains on his workbench.

The doctor suggested that it might be a recurrent seizure, or some more of a diabetic issue. Wilson wasn’t entirely sure he could have trusted that doctor at the time, though. 

He probably  _ should  _ have, really.

He lightly shakes his head, feeling oddly ill when it feels like he’d been tipping to the left. He’d been out with Woodie all day gathering wood. They’d begun preparing for winter, and any wood they could bring back was more than welcome.

Woodie had just used a few honey poultices to keep away his….beaver form and had been chopping for the past hour now. Eleven whole trees in an hour. Wilson didn’t know how the man did such a thing without pulling out his back.

Woodie pauses his chopping, and, much like every third tree he’d begun to chop away at, wipes the sweat off his brow and takes a minute to relax, leaning heavily on the handle of his axe. 

Wilson is doing his best with stacking the spare logs neatly into his backpack, but he’d begun shaking so bad he felt it was impossible.

He ends up setting the log to the side, feeling frustration at being unable to accomplish such a small task , “do you think we should head for lunch?”

“In a bit,” Woodie answers, stroking a hand down his beard in thought, not even giving Wilson a glance, “one more tree and we’ll go.”

Wilson looks down to his backpack. It was worn, and it needed to have some stitches fixed, but it carried quite a few logs despite its wear and tear. This might end up being the last time he’d use it, though, given how none of them had anything to sew with.

“Y’got them all?” 

Wilson looks back up to Woodie, who had picked up his axe and turned to face him. Woodie lifts an eyebrow at Wilson, then.

“Most of them,” Wilson replies, shakily picking up the log he’d previously set to the side and attempts to put it in the bag with the rest, “I think I have more space for another tree or so.”

Woodie takes a step toward him, leaning down and setting his axe to the side. He begins helping pack more logs into the pack, moving much quicker than Wilson, “y’feelin’ alright?” he asks.

“Peachy.”

“Peachy?”

Wilson frowns, pausing in what should be a short job of shoving logs in his bag, “I feel odd, but it’s nothing lunch won’t solve.”

Woodie hums and Wilson had a feeling the man didn’t believe that it was just an ‘odd’ feeling, but...that was fine. He didn’t need to spill his guts over how gross and shaky he felt right now. He could go get lunch, lay down in his tent for a few hours, and be ready to go by the time Woodie was done palling around with the other survivors.

“You’re shakin’ like a leaf.” Woodie notes, then.

Wilson raises a hand to look and, oh, he certainly was shaking to the point it was noticed. He’d just figured it was a small tremor.

“I am.” he replies, before going back to grabbing some nearby logs to toss into the pack.

A hand on his wrist stops him. He glances up to the other man, feeling a little less seasick when he knew the world really wasn't moving around, what with the hand on his wrist holding him still. “You’re sick. Let’s go to camp.” Woodie says, taking on a softer tone. 

Wilson sighs, saying nothing as he makes to stand up along with Woodie, the hand on his wrist going to his shoulder to help when he stumbles.

His legs feel like jelly, and he’s suddenly feeling very lightheaded, “I think I’m going to faint.” he warns. Woodie lifts the pack up with his other hand with nothing more than a short grunt.

“Think you can walk?” 

Wilson remains silent, taking note of how strange he felt. He had vertigo, but he does feel that he could walk somewhat decently so long as it isn’t harsh. “I think so,” he says, taking a step to the side.

He wobbles, and reaches out a hand to the other before he could tumble, “Er! Perhaps not!” he chuckles right as Woodie catches his hand with a “woah”.

“What’s wrong?” Woodie asks, patting the other man’s shoulder gently.

“Just a bit dizzy.”

Woodie hikes the pack up his shoulder, taking his hand off Wilson’s shoulder to put the backpack on properly. He has to adjust the straps, but it only takes a second. He uses one of the gaps between the logs to slide his axe into the pack without even looking.

The head of the axe poking out like that didn’t seem very safe, but Wilson has learned that trying to keep the others safe by mentioning little things like that was almost always jinxing what actually ended up happening.

_ They _ could probably hear him when he warns people of dangers. Perhaps some of the things he warned about had given  _ Them _ ideas...he hates the thought. He wasn’t too cautious, but some of the things the others got up to were….pretty sketchy.

Woodie clears his throat, and Wilson briefly wonders if the man is coming down with something this autumn, “I’m gonna carry you.”

Wilson has maybe three seconds and he spends them all stuttering a “what”, before Woodie already has an arm hooked under his legs and the other at his back, pressing Wilson’s side to his chest in a carry.

“Don’t do that!” Wilson shouts, lightly slamming the palm of his hand into the other man’s chest, “Warn me next time!” 

“Sorry,” Woodie says, sounding like he truly was, “didn’t think you’d like bein’ carried, so I figured it’d be faster to just get it done, yeh?”

Wilson sighs, accepting his fate, “Y-yeah ...you guessed right.” 

Just...he hoped no one was at camp right now. Wilson didn’t want to be carried through it at all. He’d already gotten tired of the jokes Willow pulled about Wilson checking out the other men there, even if it was all in good fun.

Really, maybe letting Woodie carry him there wasn’t a good idea.

Woodie begins walking, adjusting the straps of the bag as much as he could while carrying the other man as he went. Camp was a little ways away, just beyond the swamp. They’d all decided it would be good enough to camp between the swamp and the desert, just in case. 

Though, if one were to ask Wilson about his opinion on the matter, he still thinks that camping near the cliffs a mile away from the pig village would have been the most ideal. Pigs were no match for both Wolfgang and Wigfrid, so they’d have ample meat, along with pig hide, to do whatever they needed. Along with all the berry gardens in the village, there were plenty more ways to gather food besides pigs and berries; There were also carrots and fish. 

...Wilson  _ did  _ also have a strong fondness for the catcoons located around there. If it weren’t for Webber’s safety, Wilson wouldn’t have minded having one cat around. They were the one thing Wilson liked in the Constant.

Aside from the other survivors, anyway.

Really, all this time stuck together has formed lots of trust into one another.

Webber had started calling them a family, but the idea of it made Wilson feel shy; he wasn’t that good with family. His own family were rich snobs who just wanted Wilson to follow in their footsteps...his own family made him feel uncomfortable. Really, the thought of being in a family made him feel uncomfortable.

Because what if he’s expected to do something he doesn’t want to again? What if this group of survivors puts too much stress on him over time? What if...what if he isn’t good enough?

He closes his eyes, inhaling a long, slow breath. Woodie’s heartbeat thrums against his ear, telling him that Woodie was probably still worked up from the chopping. The pace Woodie walked in was rather fast, too, from what Wilson could feel. Was Woodie rushing to camp? 

“I’m not really ...sick, you know?” WIlson says, “you don’t have to run.”

Woodie’s hand on his back shifts into a more comfortable hold, his pace not slowing down in the least, “I’m not running.”

Wilson grimaces as Woodie steps quickly over a log in the way, his vision swimming with the movements. This sucked, but really, Woodie  _ could  _ stand to go just a bit slower.

He says so, earning himself a frown from Woodie, who then stops.

“Wil,” he says after clearing his throat, “I’ve never seen you sick.”

Wilson looks up - or tries to, anyway, having a bit of difficulty over the other man’s beard - and hums in thought. Had he never truly been sick around any of the other survivors before?

No...no way. He’s felt bad tons of times.

Though, thinking about it now, did he ever really tell anyone he wasn’t feeling well whenever he was sick? He...usually powered through anything like that on his own.

He could say it was a fear of being left behind, but no, it was merely just a bad habit. He was used to being alone, and being sick or injured all alone.

He’s died alone...too many times to count in this world.

He’s spent what seemed like years alone, in this never-ending nightmare of a world. It wasn’t until a good eight months ago that he stumbled into the other’s path while on his way to the pig village.

But....he hasn’t let anyone know he was sick whenever he was, did he? No. No, he did not.

“It’s not a big deal,” Wilson says, reaching a hand up to pat the other man’s chest, “I get sick all the time; something to eat and a nap usually fixes it.”

Woodie glances down at him, “you sure?”

“Sure as can be.” 


	2. 2

Wilson wakes up in Woodie’s tent, head spinning and feeling just a bit too chilly. He’s confused for a moment before he remembers everything that happened previously: He must have fainted in Woodie’s arms...awe no. That’s not something he wanted anyone to see.

Woodie’s tent was always the darkest for some reason - Woodie liked it that way. Wilson briefly remembers Woodie telling him once over lunch that it kept the rain from leaking in better than a normal tent would.

It takes him a good effort to move his limbs, each feeling like they’d been loaded down with cement. He doesn’t have to fully see them to know that his hands shook worse than before. 

He’d never gotten so bad like this in a long time. Usually it passes by now.

The way his stomach twists when he finally sits up reminds him that he never did get to eat. That was probably the reason he felt so horrible right now. Maybe he should also grab some water just in case.

Just as he’s making his way to stand, an arm stops him. Looking up the arm, Wilson can barely make out Woodie with how the light shone in from the tent opening. Was it still day? Amazing.

“Don’t get up,” Woodie says, crawling into the tent while balancing a plate of food, “I gotch’ya something to eat.” He says after settling down beside Wilson.

The tent wasn’t anything big at all, so they had very little room with them sitting like this, but Wilson didn’t care. He carefully takes the plate, doing his best to keep himself from shaking its contents around.

“Thank you.” Wilson says, ever trying his best to be polite.

“No problem; Warly made it special for ya,” Woodie replies, reaching out to close the tent flap and turn on his lantern, “He says it’s good for when you’re feelin’ down.”

Wilson hums, moving the fork on the plate a bit. In the light, he could make out the dish was just simple pan-fried turkey and potatoes, but Wilson appreciated it a lot anyway. Potatoes are very hard to get around here, and turkey meat is usually reserved for the winter at this time.

It…..felt like such a waste, on him. He could have easily felt better after eating something else. 

“I should make something for him later as a thank-you.” Wilson states, taking a bite and smiling in appreciation; No matter how simple the dish, Warly always seemed to add something good in it. Before meeting him, Wilson wouldn’t even consider seasoning his foods. The change was...well, the food Warly made reminded him of home, almost. 

About a minute into enjoying the food, Woodie shifts into a more comfortable position. "How're you feeling? Y’gave everyone a scare."

Wilson takes a moment to swallow the bite he had before replying, "I'm doing better."

Woodie hums, “you know what that was all about back there?”

“Did I pass out?” Wilson asks instead of answering.

At Woodie’s nod, Wilson sighs, “I don’t...really know what is wrong with me; I’ve only ever really seen one doctor about it. He had a few ideas on what it could be.”

“Thought you were a doctor?”

“I’m more of a...chemist.”

“Ah.”

Woodie’s hand finds a place on Wilson’s shoulder, giving a gentle squeeze, “tell me next time you feel down, alright? Tell anyone. Please.”

Wilson takes this moment to glance up at the other man. He feels oddly shy at the concern lacing the other’s features. “Sure.”

Honestly, it was probably one of the first times Wilson has ever heard Woodie say ‘please’ in such a way. It felt...rather intimate, hearing it.

Woodie offers him a smile, squeezing his hand gently on Wilson’s shoulder, “Good. I don’t like you being sick.”

Wilson doesn't say anything in response to it, instead letting himself feel ...comforted.

Which is a rarity in the Constant.

He honestly doesn’t know how to respond to something such as someone worrying over him; it was, in his opinion, a rare thing to have happened. Usually it was him worrying over the others, or him trekking off to help someone else.

To have someone care about him...it was nice.

It made him feel nice.

Perhaps he could get used to being in a family, just this once.


End file.
